Vegas
by shouldsleep
Summary: Reid goes home to see his mother for the first time since his accident.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: Not my characters, not my show. I'm just playing.**

**AN: This takes place in the Good People 'verse. It's probably a good idea to check out Good People and Bad People before reading this.**

**I've never been to Las Vegas, thus all info about the strip, highways etc. is courtesy of Google.**

The heart of a mother is a deep abyss at the bottom of which you will always find forgiveness. ~Honoré de Balzac 

My head explodes at thirty thousand feet.

Woken from a half-sleeping state by a loud pop, I'm certain the sheer number of unanswered questions has finally done me in.

Maybe the saying is true and curiosity really has killed the cat?

I'm worried for a second- still in the haze of dream logic- but then I remember that Simon is safe in Garcia's apartment, and I am sitting in business class with a fully intact cranium.

The flight attendant pours champagne into two glasses while a cork rolls around somewhere under our seats.

I wonder what we're celebrating, and if it's a happy occasion. Judging from the stupid grin on his face, Reid's merely intoxicated and has sprung for bubbly to bring me into a similar state. I don't bother to remind him that a slower and stupider Reid is pretty much like everybody else is sober, minus the coordination.

The doctor's joints are well oiled and he's reached that brief and magic period between sobriety and oblivion where I might finally get some answers.

I take the chance and go for it.

"Why are we going to Vegas?"

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

The rental car is standard and it's been a good while since I last drove stick.

It shows, but Reid is polite enough not to say anything about the jerky ride.

The sightless navigator that refused to spring for GPS calmly directs me down the I5 through countless exits and a five lane intersection without breaking a sweat.

The ride down the strip is slightly less impressive by daylight, but not much- I haven't really got time to gawk in any case. Reid launches into a startling number of state-related statistics, and I find my interest wandering.

I don't want to hurt the doctor's feelings, but knowing the exports of Nevada isn't exactly on my bucket list. The city of sin is famous for casinos and strippers- everything else is just details as far as I'm concerned.

I'm not a big drinker, and rarely gamble beyond the occasional 649 ticket, but I'm hopeful that this trip won't be all work and no play. For one thing, we're not here on behalf of the BAU. For another, I'm supposed to be at the annual Wilder family reunion- thirty of my nearest and dearest eating barbecue; the women gossiping and catching up while the guys make fools of themselves on the links.

To be honest, I've never liked golf and am tired of deflecting personal questions from well meaning relatives. When and if I'm going to settle down with a nice girl and contribute to overpopulation is my business, but that's beside the point.

Reid is telling me about the complex reproduction process of the nine-banded armadillo when I finally pull into a visitor stall at Bennington Sanitarium.

I remember one of the donations Reid made from his recent inheritance; this has got to be the same place.

It's not uncommon for philanthropists to drop by and say hello after making a donation is it? Back home these kinds of stunts are a big deal- a giant cardboard check, men in suits smiling for tomorrow's front page. Maybe the facility has named a wing after him and we're here for the ribbon cutting?

"Apart from a few close relatives, they're the only known creatures to give birth to same gender quadruplets from the same embryo," Reid informs me, slipping out of his cardigan and draping it casually over one arm as if he's finally noticed the temperature is a tad on the warm side.

I'm in a t shirt and flip flops, and the A/C is cranked but I haven't once forgotten that we're in the desert.

The heat doesn't seem to bother him, but I worry about dehydration or heat exhaustion with Reid, that's partly why I agreed to come along; that, ghoulish curiosity and the free trip to Vegas.

"We're here."

Reid leaves his cane in the car and shrugs off the light hand I put on his shoulder. I cringe as he stumbles over the curb, regaining his balance just in time.

The lobby is decorated in a minimal esthetic that's welcoming and easy to clean. It's an older building, and has that faint urine and bleach smell I'm so accustomed to: _eau d'hȏpital_.

The lady at the desk greets Reid by name and tells him to go right in.

"Dr. Waltham's expecting you."

The common room has a couch and a few tables for playing cards. One wall is lined with bookshelves while another has a window that offers a peek at the grounds. There are benches outside on a lawn that appears to have been transplanted from Pebble Beach. A large fountain sits in the middle of it all (the spout disguised to look like a child urinating). It seems kind of wasteful to have a putting green in the middle of the desert, but who am I to judge?

A woman in a bathrobe sits in front of an enormous flat screen; her eyes are glazed and a silvery thread of drool leaks out of her mouth. There's an old game show playing; a woman in a shower stall trying to stuff her bra with dollar bills as money blows around her like leaves in a windstorm. A man in a wheelchair lists forward in his seat, his arms shaking as they reach for her hair.

"Personal space, Barry," reminds a twenty-something guy in khaki scrubs, coming over to move the man away from the bathrobe lady. His voice is pleasant, the response automatic, like he's done this a hundred times today already.

An old man writes frantically in a notebook at one of the card tables.

"Tell Ruth to go home," he repeats like a mantra, pressing so hard with the ballpoint that he goes through to the other side. He swears and rips out the torn page, balls it up and tosses it over his shoulder. There's a mountain of crumpled paper behind him, a few pages float in the murky fish tank by the TV.

A black woman around Liz's age is talking loudly, arguing with someone I can't see.

"Don't interrupt me," she snaps, pulling the strings on her hoodie until her face disappears.

The people are in street clothes, and there's no medical equipment as far as I can see. Their bodies are strong, but no one here is getting well, no one is going home.

"He's in his office," says a slight woman in purple scrubs, patting Reid's arm. Her hair is a graying blond, pulled back so tightly the corners of her eyes tilt upward. It must be hard for her to blink.

"Thanks Marcia," he says softly, not resisting her touch.

"And you must be Noah," she says, extending a hand to shake. Her palm is cool and calloused; her grip is firm but not too tight.

"Why don't we have a cup of tea while Spencer meets with the D.O.C?"

Tea turns out to be lemonade, which suits me just fine. I press the sweating glass to my cheek and groan in delight before taking a big gulp.

It's not overly sweet- cold and a little bit tart, delicious. I groan again.

Marcia laughs and pours herself one too.

"I've been here twenty five years, and I'm still not used to the heat. Lemonade and air conditioning just make it tolerable," she confesses, taking a sip.

I tell her about my contract with Reid and the BAU, and how well he's adjusted to going back to work. She tells me about the Sanitarium's active recreation program and the various amenities offered for the residents.

There's an uncomfortable silence and I can see Marcia looking over my shoulder.

Reid is standing in the doorway, he looks exhausted.

He's wearing his cardigan again; his eyes are puffy and his cheeks are pink like they've been slapped.

It's time to go.

We have lunch at the deli across from our hotel; it's another hour before we can check in. Reid pushes away his sandwich after a couple bites which I take as my cue to shake up the carton of Boost in my duffel bag.

"I don't want it," he protests as I pierce a straw through the foil.

"You haven't had anything to eat since the flight- and champagne and pretzels aren't exactly healthy. Not to mention you're not supposed to drink on your meds."

"My mom is a paranoid schizophrenic," Reid says suddenly without prompting.

The comment is random, but if he's trying to distract me from the subject of food, it's totally working.

"She's been there a long time."

"Since I was eighteen… I called and had them pick her up," he admits, sounding guilty and traitorous, like he'd ratted out his best friend.

He talks for a long time, pinning up every sordid detail, until all the dirty laundry is on display. I want to stop him, to tell him that he doesn't owe me an explanation- he doesn't owe me anything. I don't say a word.

"Before my accident I wrote her a letter every day- it made me feel less guilty about not visiting. When I was recovering, I asked Garcia to do it," he says softly, shaking his head like the action was regrettable.

"She pretended to be me, and said that my schedule was so busy it would be easier to keep in touch online. She emailed Marcia, who helped mom set up an email account."

I nod, not knowing what to say. My pasta salad suddenly looks very unappetizing, and the noodles sit heavily in my stomach.

"When I was well enough to do it myself, I started writing her again. I had to act like I was still working, like nothing was wrong."

"That must have been hard," I finally respond, not sure what to say.

"You'd think so… but it wasn't really. If anything it was an escape; sometimes it was kind of fun," he adds quietly.

"Don't get me wrong, I hated lying to her, but I was also in contact with Marcia… she would send me updates on how my mom was doing. She let me know that mom's doctor was trying a new medication to lessen her agitation, and that it was working. She was calmer and having more lucid moments- she was happier."

He's smiling now, and I can't help but cheer up as well, his voice trails off, and I know the story is about to take a turn.

"I felt guilty about lying, but it was the right thing to do… I still believe that," he adds, almost daring me to argue. My knowledge of schizophrenia is basic at best, but I know that most illnesses are exacerbated by stress.

News of Reid's accident and the aftermath (coupled with all the lying) would be a lot to handle for anyone, even with a healthy mind.

"She was happier than she'd ever been at Bennington- more social with the other residents, more trusting of the staff, especially Marcia. Jeopardizing all of that for a handful of visits each year… it just wasn't worth it."

"Wasn't she suspicious, going from letters and visiting to just email?"

Reid laughs, but it comes out sounding like a sob, "She's a paranoid schizophrenic, Noah. She's _always_ suspicious… I just did my best to reassure her. I called at Christmas and on her birthday, made excuses about why I couldn't come and see her in person..."

He sinks a little lower into his seat, ashamed. The waitress is trying to make eye contact about the bill, but I ignore her; this has been eating at Reid for over a year, she can wait five minutes.

"Marcia called me last week. My mom was going through a rough patch- she wanted to leave Bennington and come live with me in D.C. She threw an African violet against the wall… Marcia cleaned up the mess and found pills in the soil."

He draws in a shaky breath, and slowly exhales like he's trying to keep his cool.

"Marcia called again last night and said that my mother is still refusing to take her medication. She thinks the facility is keeping me from visiting, so she's given them an ultimatum- she'll only cooperate with the staff if she can see me. So here we are."

"Thanks. For trusting me enough to tell me that," I say, trying not to be overly sappy, but I feel a little teary that we've reached this new level of disclosure. It's like playing that first game of chess all over again- he's letting me in.

We check in and pick up our keys to the room; we're sharing a room with two queens, but I'm too tired to make a joke that the doctor won't understand anyway. Reid kicks off his shoes and flops down on the nearest bed, his eyes closing immediately.

He's been tired lately- more so than usual. The team's always on call, so their hours aren't exactly conducive to a regular sleep schedule. He's mainlining coffee like never before, arguing that an upset stomach is better than the headache he gets from caffeine withdrawal.

I pick my battles.

We have two more days in Nevada, which is the longest the team can spare us. Suddenly forty eight hours feels like an eternity.

TBC

**Your reviews are like candy. Please indulge my sweet tooth.**


	2. Chapter 2

**AN: Many thanks to those who reviewed, this chapter is for you.**

For the happiest life, rigorously plan your days, leave your nights open to chance. ~Mignon McLaughlin

I wake up to Reid's Blackberry beeping to announce a new message- it's five o'clock.

_I must have dozed off._

Reid hops off the bed and crawls over to his suitcase to pull out the device, sitting on the floor by the bathroom while he listens to the message. I try not to think about how dirty the carpet must be.

He crawls back to his bag and unzips one of the inside pockets, feeling around before pulling out an envelope.

"Noah?"

I lean over to read the slips of paper in his hands- two tickets to Phantom of the Opera and a note wishing the doctor "A Very Happy Half-Birthday". The letters are big and loopy, written on a flower shaped Post it in sparkly ink- I don't have to be an expert in handwriting analysis to know who it's from.

The show starts at eight, and we end up eating at a Chinese restaurant near the theatre. There's a pair of drag queens in the booth next to us, and an acrobat in sequined leotard is paying for takeout at the register. A tattooed teenager with incredibly stretched earlobes buses tables while whistling the theme song from Star Wars.

No one looks twice at Reid's sunglasses or cane, and I know he'd be happy to know he's blending in. For once his disability doesn't make him a freak. I guess it's hard to be a spectacle in this town. Reid gobbles up his lo mein and vegetables with gusto, quickly forgoing chopsticks for a fork. The doctor tells me everything I ever wanted to know about the musical and some things I didn't.

"There are currently five English translations of _Le Fantôme de l'Opéra. _The first one, by Alexander Teixeira claims to be "complete" but is actually abridged. I prefer the original French version anyway."

Reid can be exhausting, but it's nice to see him happy again- his normal animation resumed after the stressful meeting at Bennington. We'll be going back in the morning so he can see his mom, so this is a welcome distraction.

I haven't seen a musical since the production of "The Wizard of Oz" I went to in college- I was dating one of the apple trees, so I kind of had to go; can't say I'm a fan of the genre.

The Vegas production makes me reconsider.

The sets and costumes are really well done and the songs are catchy- it helps that Reid is wholly engrossed in the performance. It's hard to be down on anything when the doctor is enjoying it so wholeheartedly. The show is over before I realize how late it is, Reid is still smiling as we exit the theatre, but he's quiet now, and there's none of the chatter like earlier- I guess he's tired from the flight and the busy day.

We head back to the hotel and the doctor crawls into bed still fully dressed. I'm flipping through a stack of pamphlets on local attractions, when Reid, voice muffled through a pillow, tells me to go already, he's tired but there's no reason I shouldn't see the sights.

He's lying on his side with his knees pulled up to his chest- I've seen this position before and am instantly concerned.

"You okay, man?"

"Just tired- the flight, and then seeing my mom… I just want to be by myself for a while."

"Fair enough."

I know it hasn't been an easy day for him; he's an introvert and needs time by himself to recharge. Unfortunately, or maybe fortunately, that means I have to get lost for a while.

Half an hour later I'm playing Texas Hold 'em with a man in a cowboy hat, trying to remember the finer points of strategy and statistics- wisdom bestowed by Reid on one of many long flights. I hit the roulette table, even though I should know better- Reid has drilled the probabilities into me, and from what I can understand, the game clearly favors the house.

The free drinks keep coming and I settle into a seat at one of the slot machines- pulling a lever is one of the few capabilities I have left, so it's a good match.

I run out of coins around midnight and end up in a fifties style diner. I'm sipping a milkshake from a glass shaped like Betty Boop when I realize that I have four missed calls from Reid.

I toss some cash on the table and make an obnoxious squeaking sound exiting the vinyl booth. A waitress on roller skates waves to me as I push open the door to leave, the bells on the handle jingling as it shuts behind me.

A girl in combat boots approaches me; she's scrawny, with teased hair and clownish makeup, and looks too young to be out this late.

She asks me if I want to have some fun, but I just keep walking.

My eyes adjust to the dimness of the street, the alcoholic buzz is fading and I'm starting to feel a little depressed, or maybe I'm just coming back into reality.

I'm knocking on the door of the hotel room for the third time before I realize that I've got a key. Reid's not on the bed anymore and I hear water running in the bathroom.

"I'm back, Reid. Sorry I missed your calls."

Reid shuffles out a few minutes later and collapses onto the unmade bed.

"That's okay, it wasn't important," he says, voice muffled as he burrows under the comforter like a mole.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

The alarm goes off obscenely early, and I awake to see Reid, showered and fully dressed, sitting cross legged in a chair by the window where light filters in through the venetians. His hair is slicked back with some sort of gel, and he's wearing a suit jacket despite the heat; he looks like he's going to church.

We're way too early for our visit to Bennington, but Reid's practically vibrating with anticipation and I know that if I fall asleep he'll be gone by the time I wake up. This has happened before- if he gets restless he'll just start walking aimlessly, wandering but covering a lot of ground at the same time.

He doesn't want breakfast, but we stop anyway at a nearby IHOP- some of his pills need to be taken with food, and I'm hoping that the quasi-hangover I'm experiencing might go away with pancakes.

He chews the toast dry, without the customary blob of jam, and I know something is very wrong if his sweet tooth is out of commission.

"Do you want to talk?" I ask, cautiously like I'm sliding out a Jenga block.

"What color are my socks?"

"Uh, I meant about your mom," I say, not sure if he's pretending to be oblivious or if he's just not picking up on my cues that this is a deeper exchange.

"I need to know what color they are, it's important."

"The left one is purple and the right is checkered- black and white," I answer after a quick glance underneath the table.

I try to be thankful that we're having a dialogue, even if it's about clothing.

"Okay, good. That's good," he says, taking a drink of coffee.

"Why can't they match?" I ask, curious. I'm used to his quirks, but this one defies logic as far as I can tell.

"I know that outcomes are affected by probability and related factors…"

I nod, even though he can't see me.

"You think it's lucky?"

Reid nods this time, but there's a line of tension in his forehead that doesn't seem sock-related.

"I wore paired socks to work…on, you know… the day of the explosion."

"You probably wore pants too," I remind him but he's not paying attention.

He shrugs, tearing open a packet of salt to put in his coffee- I don't stop him, afraid that if I move he'll stop talking. He's never mentioned the accident before.

"I'd forgotten to pack socks in my go bag. I ended up borrowing some from Morgan that morning," he says, smirking a little at the memory.

"I was walking toward the building… I reached the front door and the unsub was holding a detonator… the wires were wrapped around the little boy… the look on his face," he shuddered at the memory.

"I thought you didn't remember the accident."

Reid has a far-away look on his face and it's clear my words haven't registered with him.

"Maybe if I'd stuck to the script, that boy would still be alive."

His voice is shaky, but his gaze is fierce and penetrating, and I have to look away. I try to think of something reassuring to say, but no words seem adequate for what this man has been through. I think back to a seminar I once attended on grief counseling, but no sentiments of wisdom spring to mind.

"It was a terrible thing that happened to you, Reid. But it would have happened whether your socks matched or not, no matter what you'd said or done…"

My words fizzle out, but it doesn't matter, he's not listening anyway. I'm busy feeling like a shitty confidante when I realize that he's talking again.

"And then my mom was bending over my body… she pointed at my socks. She told the team that I was a bad son and never listened to her, that I'd gotten rid of her as soon as I could."

He shakes his head, pushing away his coffee without finishing it.

"It was a dream, Reid. You were unconscious after the blast- the team stayed with you until the paramedics came, and then Morgan rode with you in the ambulance-"

"It was the only advice from her I always followed, but then I didn't and the little boy died…" he continues, cutting me off with a flippant wave of the hand.

His face looks strained eyes closed tightly, his mouth stretched in a thin line like he's trying desperately not to cry.

"Maybe this is karma… I put her in an institution, and now…" his voice cracks and he shuts his eyes at the memory.

"The unsub caused that explosion, Reid. It wasn't a punishment for anything you did or didn't do."

He pauses and seems to consider my words for a moment, like it's finally registered that this is a two way conversation.

I get the bill while Reid uses the restroom. He's gone a very long time. I'm preparing to check on him when he reappears, ushering me toward the exit like I've been making _him_ wait.

"We should go, my mom's waiting."

TBC

**Hastily edited, please forgive any mistakes. **

***Your reviews make my day, and may influence my writing speed. **


	3. Chapter 3

**Unbetaed = all mistakes are mine. Please see first chapter for disclaimers.**

_"To describe my mother would be to write about a hurricane in its perfect power."  
>- Maya Angelou<em>

xxx

Diana is mentally ill, not stupid. Her intellect might not match that of her genius offspring, but she's evidently smarter than the average bear and not about to fall for the "temporary blindness" story her doctor has cooked up to "minimize her distress".

The visit starts out well enough, it's not until _after_ pleasantries are exchanged that things start to go south.

"You're thinner than I remember… you don't dress the same either," she says skeptically, giving him a quick once over. "Those pants actually match that jacket."

I smirk inwardly amused that Reid's fashion sense has _improved_ with blindness.

"And who's this guy? Is he a fed?" she asks suspiciously, jerking a thumb in my direction like she's hoping I'll hitchhike out of town. "Did you come for my notebooks? They are my private intellectual property!"

"I'm a friend of Spencer's, ma'am. And I won't touch any of your things."

She frowns at me before dismissing me as a minor annoyance, turning back to Reid with another assault of questions.

They're sitting on the window seat now, Diana has removed Reid's glasses and is staring critically at his eyes, still not certain if this is a trick. She's quizzed him on trivia from the academic to autobiographical, questions of interrogation that range from Chaucer to childhood birthday gifts. (_Who buys a chemistry set for a four year old?)_ She tests him on the ingredients of tomato ketchup and asks him to recite the titles of all of his dissertations and theses papers, seemingly trying to prove that this is not really her son but an imposter.

She wants to know the cause of his accident, and long term prognosis. Who is responsible and have they been punished?

She tells him not to slouch.

He answers as truthfully as possible, and his lies stand up to his mother's scrutiny. She takes a step toward him, reaching out tentatively for a hug. Reid feels the hand on his shoulder and leans into the embrace.

They break apart and now Diana is crying, sobbing really, her body contracting with grief, arms wrapped around her bent knees, rocking slowly. The realization has hit and her sorrow builds and amplifies itself, building momentum like a storm.

Reid's eyes are closed now, and I can picture him retreating into a quiet chamber inside his giant brain, leaving me alone with his mother.

She throws her head back and I wince as it smacks against the wall, two men in scrubs rush forward to restrain the distraught woman.

A nurse that isn't Marcia comes in with a syringe drawn and the visit is over.

xxx

We're cruising down Interstate 15, about ten minutes from the hotel, when Reid unbuckles his seatbelt and starts fumbling with the door handle.

I swerve onto the shoulder, slam on the brakes, and we skid to a stop with a screech.

"What the hell are you doing? ARE YOU SUICIDAL? I'm going 70!"

I'm breathing like I've just run a marathon, and feel myself breaking into a cold sweat.

This was not the kind of thrill I expected from a trip to Vegas.

I'm still yelling when I realize that Reid isn't even in the car anymore.

I find him keeled over in the scrub brush, heaving his guts out, not aware of me in the slightest.

I grab a bottle of water from the cooler and jog over to where he's kneeling. His face is pale and the circles under his eyes stand out in stark relief. I put a hand on his shoulder to let him know I'm there, and open the water. He groans, but takes a sip, rinsing the acidity from his mouth.

"Are you having any pain?"

Reid shakes his head, which in and of itself is a lie. He's always in pain, the meds just keep it at a manageable level- in order to be totally pain-free he'd be too snowed to do his job.

I pinch the skin on the back of his hand and wait a few seconds- it stays that way.

Not good.

I keep a pretty close eye on the doctor, but I can't be with him every second. He's a grown man attempting to live somewhat of a normal life, we take precautions, but the team and I try to respect his privacy, to give him some space though it's not always easy.

I like to think that Reid shares more with me than the others, at least about his health. He's stubborn and doesn't complain, but he's gotten better at recognizing his limits. He knows that he's no help to anyone if he's in the hospital and that he has to look after himself to stay working.

"Just a headache."

Frequent migraines and back pain are part of Reid's new reality post accident, so the fact that he has a headache is not surprising. The lack of sleep and stress with his mom can't be helping either.

He gets a lot of headaches, especially on the jet (probably the air pressure), and the seats wreak havoc on his back. Sometimes JJ will give Reid a massage to help him relax, or else I'll set up the heating pad to loosen his muscles.

The team is surprisingly nurturing for a group of federal agents. Morgan will rub Reid's feet when he's not feeling well, or Prentiss will tell stories with deliberate inaccuracies to distract him from the pain. Rossi pretends not to care, but I've seen him cover the doctor with a blanket when he thinks everyone else is sleeping, and replace the heating pad when it slides off.

Hotch's care for Reid is more subtle and takes place mainly behind the scenes as what would be considered hovering if done by anyone else. Usually he just calls me for a "status update" if he's worried about the doctor, and we talk shop about nothing in particular, hiding behind jargon and statistics. A little medical, a little murderer.

"Yes, Reid's neutrophils are a bit high but that's not abnormal considering he had a splenectomy. He's more concerned about finalizing his report on the Cleveland home invasions, something about needing to corroborate the evidence."

_Reid's getting the best care available, there's nothing more you can do. Stop worrying, he's fine._

"That case will never go to court. Jepson won't survive long enough to stand trial. Too many enemies- he'll probably get shanked by another inmate his first day in gen pop."

_Thanks, I needed to hear that. Now I can focus on getting the bad guys._

I talked to him just before we left, reassuring the man that this trip was for personal reasons and had nothing to do with Reid's health.

Penelope is a sweetheart, as prepared as any girl scout she has a purse full of remedies for every possible disaster (not all of them are FDA approved).

I give him some Tylenol before driving back to the hotel. The ride is silent- and I start to feel a bit sad as I think about Spencer and his mother. At least this visit has explained some of the doctor's past behavior- his relationship with Mrs. Lombardi, for one. His reaction to her death makes more sense given the context of his childhood- a maternal figure who bakes cookies and pampers you when you're sick must have been strange and wonderful to a man who basically raised himself. I start feeling guilty for not calling my own mom more often- it wouldn't kill me to wear the sweater she made for me either. One sleeve is a bit shorter than the other and it's kind of Cosby-ish, but she had good intentions. I'm lucky to have her.

Reid still hasn't put his glasses back on and I wince as he looks skyward, having a competitive staring contest with the sun. The doctor yawns and rubs his eyes, but refuses to lie down. He looks worn out from the brief visit or maybe guilt and sorrow have broken down his defenses.

"You flew all the way here with me, no questions asked, missing your family reunion and everything... I appreciate that, the least I can do is show you around," he says, as if I'm a Good Samaritan instead of a paid employee.

"Why don't you get some rest, and I'll take one of those tourist bus rides to see the sights? We can go out later if you're up to it," I add, still not liking the pastiness of his complexion or the tiredness in his voice. I'm not trying to ditch him, but to be honest I could use a break. This hasn't exactly been the worry-free weekend I thought I'd signed on for.

"You'll be the only person under sixty-five," he warns me, but I can tell that he's wavering; the lure of cool bed sheets and a quiet room are calling his name.

I hook him up with fluids and make sure the air conditioning is working. I leave his Blackberry on the nightstand with instructions to call me if anything changes- worsening pain or vomiting, whatever. By now he knows better than to spare me the gory details.

xxx

I'm reading my guidebook like a good little tourist when I get the call. I pounce on the vibrating cell expecting Reid, and then pause frowning at the call display: Morgan?

"Hello?" my voice sounds brittle and far away, like I'm the one calling from Virginia.

"_It's Morgan."_

"I know… I'm in Vegas with Reid, remember?"

"_Henry's got the chicken pox, so J.J. is taking a few personal days, and Prentiss is leaving tomorrow for that conference in Houston."_

"Uh huh."

"_So…"_

"So?" I ask confused but not meaning to be rude.

"_Hotch told the rest of us to take a long weekend…"_

"Oh, that's good," I answer, still not sure where this is going, but fervently hoping that Reid has already had chicken pox.

"_Can you pick me up at the airport?" _

TBC

**AN: Sorry for the delay, RL has been busy and I haven't had much time to write. Thank you for your patience and for continuing to read despite the delay in posting this chapter. **

**I'm not exactly sure where this is going- I had intended on taking this in a different direction, but my muse had other ideas. Now Morgan is in Vegas, Diana is snowed with Haloperidol, and Reid has a migraine. (Noah is rolling with everything, as usual.) **

**Thanks for reading, and please leave a review if you can (I love reviews!) **


	4. Chapter 4

_Dreams are true while they last, and do we not live in dreams?_

~Alfred Lord Tennyson

Morgan and Vegas are like PB and J, so I'm a little surprised that the first thing Derek wants to do when he arrives is talk.

We stop at a Starbucks near the hotel and order iced coffees, sitting inside to escape the heat. Morgan has been quiet since our initial greeting at the airport, and I can tell that he's got a lot on his mind.

"I guess you've met Reid's mom."

It's not a question, but I nod anyway, not sure what to say. Talking about the experience without Reid present feels like a betrayal. Morgan seems to understand, because he doesn't mention Diana again, turning his attention back to his friend. I tell him about our trip thus far, mentioning the tickets to _Phantom_ from Garcia and how much the doctor enjoyed the musical. I leave out the visit to Bennington and Reid vomiting on the interstate, choosing to focus on the Kodak moments instead.

He wants to go back to the hotel and drop his bag off, but I suggest a tour of the strip first. Luckily Morgan agrees, talking excitedly about his favorite bars and restaurants and other attractions he wants to show me around the city.

It's true that I want to look around, but to be honest the tour is more of a distraction for Morgan to buy Reid a few more hours of solitude. Even if his migraine has subsided, he'll need time to process the meeting with Diana.

My text about Morgan's arrival has gone unanswered, so he's most likely sleeping anyway. The doctor's sleep habits are erratic, and the team's schedule exacerbates the insomnia. He has a prescription sleep aid but refuses to take it, citing that it makes his brain "foggy". I'm not sure if it's clarity of mind he's worried about, or the clarity of his dreams.

Nightmares are to be expected given the trauma Reid has experienced, and his work isn't exactly conducive to a peaceful eight hours. Despite a concentrated effort to distance myself from the violence, I've seen pictures of some the victims- lifeless bodies, vacant eyes. I haven't seen much, and yet sometimes the crime scenes get mixed up in my dreams. A bloody handprint on the wallpaper, a mother crying for her child. I wake up covered in sweat and for a second I almost understand.

I've tried to get Reid to talk to a professional, but he shrugs off the suggestion and pushing only makes him more closed off.

Reid only gets the facts now, no violent imagery; he has to create that himself from the descriptions he's given or relive the memories that haunt his dreams. Synaptic snapshots preserved alongside the infinity of formulae and statistics and other knowing that can't be unknown- the typical inhabitants of a genius mind.

"-Noah?" Morgan says, snapping his fingers in front of my face as if trying to bring me out of a trance.

"Huh?"

"I said_ "_do you want to ride the X-Scream?" It's like a giant teeter totter on top of the Stratosphere hotel!"

I eye the brochure warily, taking in the mammoth rollercoaster that twists in ways that seem to defy physics. I can't help but notice the look of terror on the riders' faces as they plunge headfirst off the edge of a tower. I'm not fond of amusement parks, courtesy of a traumatic childhood experience at a county fair in which I got puked on by my cousin while riding the Zipper. The memory has kind of turned me off of rides, but I don't mind eating cotton candy or getting hustled by the carnies.

"Is Noah afraid of the big scary ride?" Morgan asks mockingly, but his eyes are smiling. The agent talks big game, enjoys bantering and good natured ribbing, but he never acts on it, and he's the first one to jump in and help if you're in trouble.

"I'm just hoping you can keep down your Frappuccino- I only brought one pair of shoes," I shoot back, looking down at my feet and then doubtfully back at him.

"Touche," grins Morgan.

We're in line for the ticket booth when I see it- a rusty green Westfalia. It has a triangle painted on the side with an eye in the middle and there's writing underneath that I can't quite make out. The vehicle sticks out like a sore thumb in a parking lot filled with mobile homes and tour buses, but that's not why it catches my eye. A man dressed all in white climbs in the driver's side and starts the engine. A woman with dreadlocks gets in the back, followed by a thin guy wearing sunglasses. The door slides shut and the van rolls out of its stall with a screech.

I race toward it, but I'm slowed down by a crowd of tourists having photos taken with an Elvis impersonator, and by the time I get through the sea of people it's too late- the van is gone.

"What is it man, where's the fire?" Morgan asks, jogging up behind me.

"_Reid _was in that van."

TBC

**A short chapter I know, but I wanted to post **_**something **_**and reassure you that I haven't abandoned this story or forgotten about it. The sunshine makes it hard to spend free time on a laptop, so updates may be infrequent. Thanks to everyone who was reviewed/alerted/favourited- you make me happy.**


	5. Chapter 5

A/N: Sorry for the inexcusably looonnnggg gap between chapters- life is busy and unfortunately reality has to come first. Thank you to those who have stuck with this story despite the time lapse, and all of you who have reviewed. Your feedback makes me smile, and motivates me to keep writing!

As always, all mistakes belong to me- the show and its characters, not so much.

Life is all memory, except for the one present moment that goes by you so quickly you hardly catch it going. **Tennessee Williams**Top of Form

It's one of those times when having the FBI on speed dial is a definite perk. Technically you need to wait 24 hours to report a missing person, particularly when said person appears to have been acting of his own volition, and may not appreciate being "found" at all.

Luckily a phone call to Garcia cuts through the red tape like an X-Acto knife, and the search for Reid begins almost immediately. Reid's cell is turned off, so tracking it is not an option. A rapid dialogue between Garcia and Morgan explores other options which ultimately lead to dead ends. Garcia promises to call if she finds anything, and hangs up without so much as an innuendo.

"Noah, you need to tell me everything you saw before Reid got into the car. The smallest detail could be the key to finding where he went."

"I already told you everything I know- it happened so fast, I hardly even realized it was him before the van pulled away."

"You might know more than you think you do- close your eyes," Morgan instructs.

I must look doubtful because he puts on his agent- face and gives me a look of authority which is kind of intimidating. It's a little creepy to see a guy on vacation morph into a fed before your eyes.

"It's called a 'cognitive interview'- basically it's just a tool to help witnesses remember what they saw. The memory might be there, they just can't access it until we probe a little deeper."

I'm not sure I want to be probed deeper, but if it will help find Reid I'm willing to try. The heat surrounds us like a dense fog, and just standing upright feels like a chore. I wonder if Reid thought to bring any water or food. Glancing at my watch, I notice he's due for more pain medication soon. Reid's pain is the kind that sneaks up on you, building gradually until it's almost unbearable. I think back to the last time he pushed it too far...  
><em><br>The team was in Jacksonville investigating a series of arson attacks on prominent buildings. Reid was deciphering a coded message encrypted in emails between the unsub and his partner. The next attack was predicted within twenty four hours and the agents had been chasing their tails all day trying to prevent a tragedy that seemed imminent._

_They worked through lunch, and most of Reid's medications need to be taken with food or he gets nauseous. I try not to interrupt the doctor when he's working, or draw attention to his medical needs in front of the other agents. Hotch is kept informed (with Reid's permission) about any major changes in his condition, but for the most part his health is kept private._

_I notice the signs before he does- the clench of his jaw, and the constant shifting around, unable to find a comfortable position. He's hunched over his laptop, giving voice commands to a mapping program that relays coordinates, the significance of which I don't fully understand. The intensity with which he works is electric- completely immersed in the task at hand, he's distracted from the signals of protest his body is undoubtedly sending. I wait until Morgan and Prentiss leave for the hospital to interview a survivor of the last attack._

_I slip a sandwich into his free hand but he won't stop to eat it. I remind him that it's time to take his medication but he politely refuses. _

_"They're counting on me to solve this- I just need a little bit longer."_

_He doesn't like taking the meds at the best of times, claiming they make it harder to concentrate on his job. _

_I understand the importance of his work, I do- he helps save lives- the team prevents catastrophic events which would otherwise kill a lot of people. I get all that, but my responsibility is for him, not the potential casualties, and I've been authorized to pull rank if necessary. One call to the unit chief and Reid is temporarily suspended- placed on mandatory leave, pending Dr. Steele's clearance for his return._

_I end up asking Hotch for guidance. He's the one who hired me, and I know he has the doctor's best interests at heart._

_"He's pushing himself too hard- he needs to rest and eat something so he can take his medication..."_

_Hotch nods gravely, but doesn't say anything so I continue._

_"He says he's close, and that everyone is counting on him..."_

_There's an awkward pause, during which I'm hoping very much that he'll prove me wrong._

_"He's not wrong- if anyone can figure it out, it's Reid. I can't make the decision for you, Noah, but if he wants to do it and understands the risks..."_

_"A lot of people will die if he doesn't solve this?"_

_"I'm almost certain of it- I'd pull him out myself if there were any other way."_

_Reid decodes the unsub's message which reveals the location of the next attack. Dozens of people are evacuated and the arsonist gets caught at a roadblock trying to escape._

_I'm packing our go bags when I hear the call for help. I sprint into the conference room and find JJ bent over Reid's crumpled body, holding his hand and saying his name. There's no response, not even a twitch._

_I'm not surprised- I knew letting him continue would eventually result in this. I'd just hoped we had a little more time._

_The body can only take so much abuse- push it past what it can handle it starts whispering that it needs a break._

_"Feed me, let me rest."_

_The whisper grows louder, and still he ignores it. Louder and louder until it is almost deafening- And then there is no sound- he is resting whether he wants to or not, down for the count, the team can shout but he is powerless to answer._

_I grab a cushion off a nearby sofa to support his head and gently roll him onto his side in case he vomits, tucking his hand under the side of his head. I ask JJ for a cold cloth which she races to get. It's not crucial and probably won't bring him around any faster, but it will be comforting when he wakes up, and I have the feeling she is grateful for any task no matter how trivial._

_His vitals are erratic, pulse racing as he takes quick shallow breaths- accessory muscles heaving with each inspiration. He's working too hard- sweat is beading on his forehead, and there's grayish cast to his skin._

_Slowly he comes around, eyes slitting open, he looks wildly around and begins to panic. The panic dies down as the confusion clears- as he slowly remembers. ('Oh, that's right. I'm blind')._

_The clench in his jaw from earlier is now a grimace- he's in agony, writhing on the ground, and then he's retching, vomit trickling out the corner of his mouth, too weak to raise his head._

_"I'm going to give you something for the pain," I tell him, rolling down the waistband of his corduroys and making a quick swipe with an alcohol swab. I'm prepping the syringe when he starts fighting me._

_"No, I don't want it! Please, I don't want it."_

_He's sobbing softly, pausing occasionally to dry heave._

_"It'll sting for a second, but will start to work quickly," I say, less to Reid than to JJ who has returned with the towels and is gently cleaning around the doctor's mouth and chin. He settles at her touch, she whispers soothingly, patting his back as he has a coughing fit, then covers him with a blanket I get from one of the medics. I should have known someone would call an ambulance. Reid will be pissed when he recovers._

_I ask JJ to leave for a moment so I can do a full assessment. Reid is close to everyone on the team, but he's also a very private person. With the others he is an agent, a dignified holder of doctorates, with me he is a mere mortal. Vulnerable to pain and fatigue, he doesn't have all the answers. _

_His complex health history coupled with surgical adhesions means even mild pain is potentially serious, not to mention all the run of the mill problems he's more prone to. By the time he admits to not feeling well, he's probably really suffering._

_His breathing slows and I see his muscles starting to relax- the drugs must be kicking in._

_His vitals are back in normal range by the time the rest of the team gets back.  
>Morgan helps me transfer him to the couch, gently lifting Reid like he weighs nothing. The movement startles him, his arms reaching out reflexively to fend off the unseen attacker.<em>

_"What happened? Who's there?" he asks in a small voice, sounding childlike- vulnerable._

_"It's Noah- Morgan's here too. You're going to be okay- you just pushed it too far." _

_('Because I let you'_,_ I don't say.)_

_He's struggling to sit up, still exhausted and weak. These episodes take a toll on the doctor- it will be days before he's back to his regular self._

_"Try and rest, Reid. Just close your eyes."_

"Noah, close your eyes," repeats Morgan, shaking me from my reverie.

"Go back to the promenade, right after we left the coffee shop."

I nod, trying to picture the scene in my mind.

"Uh, it's warm out… feels like we're wading through the heat. I'm thirsty again, even though we just had drinks."

"Good, man. That's good," Morgan encourages, I can almost feel him nodding.

"What do you hear?"

"People- laughing and talking… and traffic, someone keeps honking their horn."

"Do you smell anything?"

"Hotdogs- there's a stand across the street. Sunscreen and B.O. -mostly B.O." I add, wrinkling my nose at the memory.

"Walk with me now... We were getting tickets for the rollercoaster, and then you spotted something out of the corner of your eye..." he prompts, taking me back to the street corner.

"There were people getting into a van. A crazy hippie van with a mural on one side. Then I noticed… a skinny white guy hopping into the back."

"Then you saw Reid."

I nod, frustrated that I can't tell him more.

"The van- can you describe it? The make and model, or maybe a partial plate?" Morgan asks hopefully.

I shake my head, angry with myself for not picking up on these details.

"Think, Noah! This is important," Morgan pushes, as if I don't know that.

"Sorry for not thinking like a profiler- I'm not an agent, in case you've forgotten! All I remember is a green rust bucket with a stupid eye painted on it- and a bunch of crazy symbols," I say, annoyed.

"The image on the van- do you think you could draw it?" Morgan asks excitedly, like he hasn't heard the frustration in my voice.

"I guess I can try. I'm not much of an artist," I warn him, not wanting to get his hopes up. _Or mine.__  
><em> 

Fifteen minutes later, and my crude picture has been texted to Garcia. I don't know how she's going to translate my chicken scratch into something meaningful, but right now she's our only hope.

My phone rings, but it's not Garcia's number on the call display- it's Reid's. 

TBC

When exactly this will be updated, I can't say… I didn't want to post until I had a few chapters written, but who knows when that will be, so I figured something is better than nothing? Reviews are all read and very much appreciated (hint, hint).


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